The Not-So-Great Porter

t’s a new world out there,” Mr. Heisenberg said. “There is no sense of wonder anymore. Magic is dead, killed by science long ago.”

“Give me another chance,” the white-haired magician said. “If I can’t pack the house, I’ll never darken the door of your theater again.”

“You’d better wow me, old man.”

“So it’s come to this,” Porter thought, “begging this morbidly obese simpleton for a few moments on his stage. But he’ll see! In my jacket are the blueprints for a miracle. Tonight, I’ll show him magic still lives and breathes!”

Showtime. Porter’s assistant, a raven-haired beauty in a white gown, came to center stage. “I need a dozen volunteers,” Porter said. “Please form a circle around this lovely, young lady. Join hands. Let nothing touch her.”

Moving to the edge of the stage, The Great Porter gestured mysteriously, and the woman began to rise. With the ring of people around her, there couldn’t have been any wires but, somehow, she was floating. She rose gently, twelve feet in the air, like a leaf falling in reverse. The illusion was perfect, beautiful. Truly, this was a miracle. But then, the audience began to mumble and groan. And then they stood and simply walked out.

Stunned, Porter followed the crowd out the door. “Where are you going?” he cried. “What’s wrong?” But the audience ignored him. Grumbling about the lousy show, they slipped on their helmets, strapped on their jetpacks, and flew off into the night. Porter sighed, exhausted. “Heisenberg was right. It’s a new world out there!”